Cave Canem
by PythonFan
Summary: Maureen leaves her dog with Mark for the weekend. Collins is amused.


Collins lounged lazily on the old couch, squinting up at the cracks that marred the ceiling of the loft, when he heard the racket at the door. He glanced up in time to see Mark struggle in, a massive duffel bag slung over one shoulder. In the other hand, he held a pink leather leash, at the end of which was…

Holy hell.

"What the _fuck _is that?" Collins stared, horrified, at the…thing…staring up at him from its spot at Mark's feet.

Mark flinched as he allowed the bulging bag to drop to the floor with a heavy _thud_. "It's Maureen's new dog, Princess." he explained, straightening his glasses.

"That's not a dog." Collins stated blandly, keeping a wary eye on the brown chihuahua's glistening teeth.

Mark rolled his eyes. "She's at her parents' beach house in Nantucket for the weekend, and didn't want to leave her alone. I, uh, volunteered to keep an eye on her." He crouched down to unleash the tiny canine, and was rewarded with a swift chomp on the wrist. "Jesus _Christ_." he cursed, pressing the wound against his lips and glaring at the dog.

Collins boosted himself up and wandered into the kitchen. "_You_ volunteered, or _she _volunteered _you_?" As he rattled through the refrigerator, the only response was an extended, embarrassed silence.

The anarchist emerged with two beers. Sliding one across the counter towards the blushing filmmaker, he chuckled in wry amusement.

"At least when you two dated, you got laid in return for waiting on her hand and foot." he chided amicably. Noting the discomfiture written on his friend's face, however, Collins decided to let the subject drop. Changing direction, he cocked his head at the beady-eyed mongrel. It growled in response. "So, how long's the mutt gonna be here?"

"Sunday night." Mark closed and eyes and shook his head lightly, a small smile gracing his features. "Roger practically bolted down to Mimi's when I told him."

A silence settled over the room for several seconds before Collins clasped his hands around his beer, resting his chin on the top of the bottle. Wrinkling his nose at Princess, who had adopted his messenger bag as a chew toy, he blinked with mild confusion. "So…what do you do with it?"

"Her." Mark corrected. "And…Maureen left a list." He felt around in his coat before successfully producing a small notepad and tossing it on the countertop with a halfhearted shrug.

Collins reached across to snag the pad, flipping it open. Almost immediately, he began to chuckle. "Christ, is that a dog or a newborn you got there?"

Mark snorted. "She's very protective."

"That's one word for it." Collins got up and circled the counter to where the large bag lay. He poked it with his toe. "Do I even want to ask?"

The filmmaker took a long swig of beer. "All Princess's. I think she's got more baggage than Madonna."

Collins let out a low whistle, shaking his head in disbelief. He turned to his friend with a smirk. "You have fun with that, Marky. I've gotta run some errands. Might stop by for a nightcap, though." He walked to where his bag lay against the couch. Princess was still gnawing away, oblivious to his presence.

"Hey." he commanded. "Hey, demon spawn. Off the bag." The dog simply ignored him, continuing to tear away at the fabric. Realizing that he wasn't going to get anywhere this way, Collins squatted in an attempt to disentangle dog from bag. Before he had fully realized what happened, though, he was flat on his ass, Princess snarling up at him from between his knees. How he had managed to escape the sharp teeth unscathed, he had no idea. But he sure as hell wasn't sticking around to tempt fate. Scrambling to his feet, Collins snatched up his bag. Heaving it over his shoulder, he backed swiftly out of the loft, tossing a sympathetic smile in Mark's direction.

Hours later, Collins wasn't sure what he was doing back at the loft, pit of hell that it had now become. But some measure of loyalty to his lovesick friend had brought him here against his better judgment. Heaving the door open, the sight that greeted him caused his eyebrows to shoot up to his hairline in what had to be a positively cartoonish expression.

The kitchen was strewn with bowls and measuring cups. The contents of at least two bags and four cans of dog food were scattered over the floor and countertops.

The rest of the loft looked more like a toy store than a living area. Stuffed animals littered the floor, along with any number of rubber bones, balls, and toys. The vicious little cur was, praise god, curled up asleep in a plushy pet bed next to the recliner.

But the crowning jewel of the whole scene was Mark—sprawled half-awake on the couch—clutching an almost-empty bottle of Absolut, one which Collins was fairly sure had been full when he'd left earlier.

"Mark?" he muttered. "Marky, you okay over there?" He crept over to the couch to stand over his rumpled, unshaven friend. Several angry red scratches crisscrossed his cheek, his glasses had been knocked askew, and bandages were wrapped haphazardly around the filmmaker's hands and fingers. His stare was glassy-eyed and vacant for several seconds until he fully digested Collins's presence.

"Collins…" he giggled weakly. "Collins, I did it." His head lolled in the general direction of the sleeping dog. In a loud whisper, he declared, "She's _sleeping_."

"Sure is." Collins bit his lip in an attempt to fight off the laughter. He carefully made room to sit on the coffee table, mindful of the piles of handwritten dog instructions and bottles of canine vitamins. He was sure not to knock anything around, lest Satan awake to spread her wrath once again.

"You gonna be okay alone here for the night?" Collins asked him. Mark grinned dopily and nodded. "Maureen called." he informed his friend proudly. "She said thanks. Told me she loved me. Called me 'pookie.'" He wrinkled his nose in disgust and his voice dropped to a confidential whisper. "Y'know, I don't think she's _really _a lesbian," he muttered around a yawn. "Just playing hard-to-get…" He was struck by a sudden fit of hysterical laughter. "_God_, she's hot." he muttered. With that, his head sagged back against the armrest.

Collins stared, bemused, at the unconscious filmmaker. "You'd best get your sweet dreams now, old friend, 'cuz tomorrow ain't gonna be pretty." he murmured. Standing, he pulled the blanket that draped the back of the couch over his friend. That finished, he put his hands on his hips and surveyed the trainwreck that was the loft. With a long sigh, he knew what he had to do.

About an hour and a half later, the apartment was back up to typical Cohen-Davis standards, which—admittedly—wasn't saying much. Nevertheless, Collins was satisfied with his handiwork. Glancing at his watch, he noted that it was almost midnight. He should probably get home. He picked up the cordless and punched in his home number. Angel would be waiting. She picked up on the first ring.

"Well, where have _you _been all night? Find someone new?" Good-natured humor laced her voice.

Collins opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by Mark tossing on the couch. "_Mmmm_…see? I took care of her…for you…" he muttered dreamily, before falling into a deeper slumber.

Collins rolled his eyes, a fond smile crossing his face.

"Quite the contrary; I spent the evening in the company of two bitches. One was a dog."


End file.
